spooky chick -
by clairebare
Summary: possession is nine-tenths of the law. hiatus reading. adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

I thought it would be an easy assignment. Hop a plane to the tropics and entice a felon into returning to the States and giving himself up.

I'd worked with the FBI behavioral team to develop a persona that would create rapport. I confided in Patrick about the quandary I was in. Should I choose a promotion or a life? And he, in turn, felt comfortable opening up to me.

He'd lived other places. Now he lived here. His wife was dead. He'd done some things. Now he was thinking about it all. And he wasn't ready.

From the case file, I had expected a sharpie with hollow eyes and a predatory smile. But he was nothing like that. He was fine and sweet and poetic in his loneliness.

When the tailor touched his face and forced him to stand still in front of the mirror, I couldn't breathe. Two hours and twenty-six minutes into our acquaintance and I knew I wanted him. I wanted to touch that face. To fix that gaze on me and me alone.

I hate the beach. I don't tan. I hardly swim. But I wanted to stay on the island with him. As long as it took.

As long as it took to do what, Kim? I asked myself. To bring him back to stand trial? No. To get him and to keep him.

I had no idea what I meant by that or how to accomplish it.

I'm nice looking enough and I can be personable. But I was the only English-speaking woman in town and that's why he spent time with me. I'm not insecure, just realistic. But it was like I'd washed up on a deserted island with the most desirable man in the world. Certainly the most desirable I'd ever known. Just the two of us. This was my chance.

So I asked him to dinner. Abbott would have wanted me to anyway. Patrick smiled when he saw me in my dress. And instead of stuttering something about how nice I looked, he simply inclined his head and we walked in the direction of the restaurant.

He has such good taste in behavior. Is that a strange thing to say? Just that elegant little turn of his head. So sexy. So subtle. His mere existence makes every other man seem like a clod.

He asked me to go dancing. I didn't feel like dancing. That didn't matter. Would never matter again. As long as he was mine, I'd do whatever he wanted.

The music was loud and good and he looked so happy. My brain was going a million miles an hour. Should I offer to get him off the island to avoid the FBI? I could figure that out. Stash him in some other remote place that only I knew about? Kill Abbott and the other two agents? Would that help? I had to come up with a plan.

Then we left the restaurant and he was jumped by those thugs and I brought him back to his bare little apartment. I should have killed those guys. I will kill them if I get a chance.

I tucked him in. I touched his exquisite face with a washcloth. He fell asleep. Such a deep sleep. I spent all night memorizing him. I ran my hand along the contours of his body. I buried my nose in the nape of his neck. I held one of his hands to my breast. It was the best night of my life.

Maybe if Abbott could convince Patrick to come back to the U.S., that would be the best option for me. He'd have to work for the FBI and I could keep him close. It was a good place to start.


	2. Chapter 2

"Kim?"

He says my name, shocked. A thrill runs down my spine just hearing him say it.

Is he glad to see me? No, he's surprised. Pleasantly surprised? No.

Disappointing. But that's OK. I'll make him see how right this is. He was made for me. And he'll understand that soon enough.

I've been living for this moment. My plan worked perfectly. Patrick is back in Austin to work for the FBI.

After a few formalities, signing papers and such, Abbott will crawl back up the butt of the division head and leave Patrick and me alone. We'll be partners.

But things aren't going quite how I'd planned.

Teresa. Not what I thought she'd be. I'd imagined a hard-boiled, swaggering lady cop but instead she's a porcelain figurine with the face of the heroine in a nineteenth century novel.

Women like her have always made me feel like a horse. A Clydesdale. Clomping along while she capers in figure eights around my hooves.

And he's smiling at her. His biggest blondest smile. He can't take his eyes off her.

Even while Abbott lowers the boom, Patrick smiles at Teresa.

I force myself to pay attention to the conversation.

I pick it up at the part where Patrick turns down Abbott's deal.

Teresa is upset.

I'm happy. I float away to set up a detention suite for him.

Go back to Washington, Teresa.

You don't belong here.


	3. Chapter 3

I watch Patrick on the surveillance camera in his detention suite. Not the official one he found and disabled immediately. The one the FBI places in a new location everyday. The one he finds yet again and disables as soon as he returns to his suite after his hour in the courtyard. Not that one.

This camera is my own personal device that feeds an image directly to my iPad mini. The one he hasn't found and won't find. I'm too good at this. Because of this camera, I can keep my eye on him all day.

As a nod to my part in bringing Patrick back to the U.S., Abbott has given me exclusive control of Patrick's isolation. It's been thrilling. I choose his meals. I decide what kind of tea he gets. Or whether he gets it at all. I choose what soap he uses and how often he gets to shave. I have his lights turned off when I want him to stop reading and go to bed.

All is done remotely. He doesn't see his guard. His guard doesn't see me. The guard receives my instructions by text and retires to his own private cubicle when his tasks are completed.

I'm the only one who has free access to Patrick.

I make sure he's rewarded or deprived randomly. Sometimes he'll get blueberry muffins. Sometimes he'll get an extra tea bag. Sometimes the lights will go dark two hours earlier. Sometimes, the book he's reading will be gone when he wakes.

Randomness breaks people down.

Patrick can't connect any particular behavior on his part to any particular consideration provided to him. It keeps him off-balance. So when he gets the tea he likes, he drinks it eagerly. He doesn't know when it's coming again or how to make it come.

I like this. Everything good and everything bad comes from me.

At first, just watching him was enough.

As the weeks went on, I wanted to be closer while still maintaining the FBI's isolation protocol.

I began experimenting with sleeping pills searching for just the right dosage to slip into his tea.

I arrived at a combination of meds that allowed me to enter his suite freely. The first few nights, I sat on his bed and held his hand.

Five nights later, I tried slipping my hand under his shirt. He shifted in his sleep. I withdrew my hand and tried again a few minutes later with the same effect. I left immediately. I had to do better.

I'd been reading voraciously on the subject and tried a melange of Zolpidem, Ropinerole and Oxycodone.

This was perfect. I was able to completely undress him.

That first night I stripped him and wondered at how such a gene pool wound up coming together in one man.

The blond curls. The square jaw. The aristocratic profile. The wide plump mouth. The upper lip curling up slightly. The chiseled lines. The tan poreless skin. The strong, graceful limbs. The large exquisite hands. The broad smooth chest. The flat stomach. The pert butt. The picture book genitals.

After a week, I began to ask myself, can unconscious men have sex? I researched topics like sexsomnia and confusional arousals. There are no clear answers but as Abbott is making noises about forcing Patrick out in the field – even bringing in Lisbon to motivate him – I have to figure out a way to make him mine and tout de suite.

I hit on my own special cocktail of Oxycodone, Lunesta, half a roofie and the tiniest soupcon of Cialis. I've found that Lapsang Souchong tea is the best vehicle for these drugs as Patrick likes it, hardly ever gets it, and the smoky taste masks the medicine.

The first night is unsuccessful. I've gone too heavy on the Lunesta. He lies there like the proverbial lox.

The next night, I reduce the Lunesta, replace it with a bit more Oxycodone, and keep the roofie and the Cialis at the same dosage.

AH, SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE AT LAST I'VE FOUND THEE!


	4. Chapter 4

It took three months but I've finally gotten what I want from Patrick. He's been very generous with me, very giving. though he doesn't yet know it.

His body is mine. Well, not his conscious body. But that'll come with time.

Teresa Lisbon showed up today and he followed her out of his detention suite like a happy puppy.

He and I are not at that happy puppy stage and it hurts.

They came into the briefing together, both of them with broad smiles. Patrick greeted Abbott. Then he greeted Cho. He greeted me third. I ignored him.

Third? Is he trying to piss me off? Is this what people mean when they talk about Patrick being Patrick?

I'm his supervising agent and I will brook no insult.

I intend to nip this behavior in the bud. I have no choice but to lower the boom on him. Show the world, show Patrick, that I get greeted first. Period.

I will bring to bear upon Patrick Jane the full might and power of the FBI. I'll make him as malleable when conscious as he was when drugged into a stupor.

To that end, when he tells me to relax at the Austin airport, I do anything but. I'm on full alert and I refuse to smile. From the way he immediately starts joking around with Lisbon, I can see that my brusqueness affects him deeply. He tries to cover his pain and confusion with humor.

To keep the pressure on, I warn him to stay at arm's length from an FBI agent, plus, I don't let him get dibs on the aisle seat. I can see his sense of self crumble as he struggles against my implacable will.

And I don't relent. When we arrive at the warehouse in Brooklyn, I forbid him to eat the hot dog he'd already paid for. I yank him away salivating. And his friend, Teresa can do nothing to stop me. He shrugs like it's no big deal but I can see that he's broken and afraid. Trying to cope with the new rules he now understands he must live by.

I am crazy about him or I wouldn't put this kind of effort into making him behave. Once he's under control, he'll see how everything starts going his way. The tea and the muffins will flow freely and a certain FBI agent will show him how wonderful life can be.


	5. Chapter 5

He's gone. He's left me. Disappeared into the wilds of Brooklyn.

After all I've done for him?

After the three meals a day that I so carefully chose for him? (I don't eat red meat, fish, butter, white flour, sugar, dairy products, chocolate, or vegetables so I figured I should start cutting them out of his diet because very soon, he'll be moving into my condo with me.)

After the tea (without milk) and gluten-free muffins I arranged for him to have three days a week?

After the condiments he sometimes found in packets on his tray? (Ketchup and mustard. No mayonnaise, I didn't want him to put on weight.) All thanks to me.

After the special nights when he was provided with a pillow? The five mornings he woke to find a bath towel instead of just a hand towel? The four minutes of hot water he got every morning? I was the founder of that feast.

And how about sex every night with no effort on his part? Most men would kill for that. Even if they were unconscious.

After all my efforts, he's gone.

And what about my career? I was supposed to be his wrangler. I told Abbott I had him all figured out. If I can't get him to knuckle under, Abbott will get someone else to do it and my whole plan to make Patrick mine in every way will be kaput. I must get this situation under control.

My first thought is that he may have tricked me but as far as I can tell, he tricked Teresa too.

And she's sitting smug as you please in the briefing room telling me Jane can't be found unless he wants to be found.

I move our conversation into my office. I think maybe this is one of those situations I've read about where Teresa and I act like a couple of girls just sitting around chatting. I've never had a girlfriend so I wasn't exactly comfortable with the role. But I thought if the pajama party routine is what works, I'm willing to give it a try.

So I ask her in my most chummy voice, if she helped him escape. I make it sound very casual figuring she'll confide in me because we are, as I've heard it called, just shooting the shit. She gets all huffy, looks at me like I'm insane and says she's an officer of the law. Now I've never actually shot the shit before, so maybe I did it wrong. In any case, that gambit doesn't work.

Then I decide to appeal to her ego and ask for her help. You know, please oh great Chief Lisbon with all your wisdom, can you possibly see your way clear to help out a poor FBI agent? She offers me useless tidbits like "Welcome to my world" and "I have no idea." That was a bust.

Then I go for the bazillion dollar question and ask her if the two of them were involved. The look she gives me is so righteous and superior, I want to lean over the desk and poke out her eyes with my letter opener.

"Why would you ask me that?" She sneers. I apologize but she looks at me like I have two heads or something. Like I'm a madwoman for even asking.

Here's the thing, I believe they weren't involved. I don't think they've kissed or anything.

Ha. And she walks around acting so superior to me. I'm the one who should be looking down on her.

Her face still has this weird expression like she's saying, "What are you, crazy?"

Well Teresa, maybe you wouldn't think I was so crazy if you knew I've had every part of your boyfriend, Patrick, in my mouth while he was drugged into a coma!

Who's crazy now, bitch?


	6. Chapter 6

He's been caught. Or rather he's announced his location by spray-painting a big yellow Jane on the street and indicating that he's ready for pick-up.

Truly, I had no idea that Patrick could be so playful and funny.

I hate that in a man.

When I arrive at his New York jail cell, he's naughty and snippy and snarky. I realize that my cool professional treatment of him both at the Austin Airport and at the Schneidermans' loft did nothing to break his spirit as I hoped it would.

I express my anger to Patrick. Tell him there is no deal to be made with the FBI. I can see by the way he flips over on his belly and goes back to sleep that he's desperate for me to give him one more chance.

I then tell him he'll be taken to Texas to be tried for murder. Even though he chuckles and yawns, I can see that I've shaken him to the bottom of his very souI.

I'm moved to take pity on him but then I get distracted by my own thoughts. I mean, honestly, how sexy is the idea of lethal injection? That would be so hot.

But I have to put those feelings aside. It would be very shortsighted of me to wish for the death sentence for my future husband and father of my children.

As it turns out Patrick is right about the body on the roof. And he's right about Abel being in the building.

Abbott is so hungry to have Patrick on his team that he re-offers him the deal. Now I hate that Abbott does that because he's countermanding what I told Patrick. Abbott is making me look weak. Maybe I should kill him. I could if I wanted to. Just have to think about whether killing Abbott makes sense. Don't want to jump the gun.

Wait a minute! I don't want to kill Abbott. I love Abbott. He's sending Patrick back to his detention suite.

Oh joy. I have to run out and get my legs waxed. Patrick won't be awake to see them but I have my standards.


	7. Chapter 7

After an unseemly scene with Abbott in front of the FBI building, Patrick is back in detention and he and I have settled into our old routine.

I'm happy to have him back in his suite again. I've really missed our time together. Especially the sex part.

I haven't had a steady relationship in a long time. If I add up the time between Patrick's first detention and his current one, it's coming on our five-month anniversary.

Five months. It's so nice to not have to wonder what I'll be doing after work or on the weekend. I know I'll be here quietly watching my favorite boy. Selecting his meals, doling out towels, concealing medications in his tea and making sweet love to him every night.

Someday, sometime, on some quiet evening, after we've tucked in the kids, we'll cuddle up on the sofa and I'll tell Patrick all about the wonderful nights we spent together in this cozy little suite.

It's nice to have him back. I love him more each day.

I do find that I'm still angry at him for running away in Brooklyn. And I think I might be expressing that anger during our lovemaking sessions. Which I happen to think is a healthy outlet for those feelings. Besides, he's a sturdy fellow, my Patrick.

I pull my iPad mini out of my desk drawer and watch the live feed of Patrick eating the hard-boiled egg I provided for him as a special treat. No tea for him today. Don't want him to get spoiled. That wouldn't do at all.

I put the iPad back and stroll along the window wall toward the break room. I look out onto the plaza and across to the Detention Center. Someone has parked a shiny new Airstream at the far end of the parking lot. That thing has no business being on FBI property.

I grab a bottle of water from the unit fridge and stroll back along the window wall sipping it. I see a yellow cab pull up in front of the Detention Building. Teresa Lisbon gets out carrying a duffle bag and a brown shopping bag. She heads inside.

Hmm. That's interesting. Teresa Lisbon. Airstream. Teresa-

OH MY GOD! Abbott has given in to Patrick's terms!

I run back to my desk.

I pull out my iPad. I see Teresa enter Patrick's room. He breaks into his amazing smile. She sits down and they talk for a moment. She pulls out a crinkled paper bag. Socks. He looks touched. He rubs them against his cheek.

He puts the socks on and then puts his shoes back on. They're both smiling.

He stands, she stands.

Then he kisses her.

She's startled and pushes him away. He grins. Says something.

Then she jumps on him and kisses him back. They kiss each other senseless over the span of a minute or so.

Then he grabs her hand and they run laughing out of detention.

Should I kill Teresa?

I'm seriously thinking about it. I grab my handbag with my weapon in it and race out of the building.

I'm carefully considering killing Teresa all the way. Methodically toting the pluses and minuses as I've been trained to do.

I cross the plaza and see Patrick and Teresa emerge from the Detention Center holding hands. I slow down and follow them keeping my distance.

Teresa points out the Airstream in the parking lot. Patrick picks her up, slings her over his shoulder and sprints toward the trailer.

No! That's not happening. Not while I'm armed.

I'm finished weighing the pros and cons of killing her and I think the pros well outweigh the-

Cho is suddenly there in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. It's a terrible habit of his.

Should I kill Cho? No. He's not a priority. I can always do that later.

I smile and we walk back to the FBI building companionably. Cho hasn't seen me do anything but follow them through the parking lot. So I've bought some time to make a plan.

As we ride up the elevator together I think, should I kill Abbott? He's the one who gave into Patrick's demands and let him out of detention. Nah. I always have the option of killing him later if I want to.

We get off the elevator. Cho heads back to his desk and I head to the break room where I get another bottle of water and reassume my position looking out the window wall to the Airstream in the parking lot.

They've been in there about four minutes.

The door to the Airstream flies open and Patrick is hurled out to the pavement wearing only a shirt and socks. He stands up, brushes himself off and knocks on the door. Nothing. He knocks harder. After a minute, he pounds pathetically with his fists. He sinks to his knees. Not a good look for anyone wearing just a shirt and socks.

One of the little side windows pivots open. He stands on his tiptoes and speaks in the window. The window closes. A few minutes pass. The door opens. Teresa's arm reaches out and yanks him in.

A minute later, they both come out. He's dressed. Teresa has a shopping bag in one hand and is dragging Patrick by the arm.

They enter the FBI building.

I go back to the bullpen and busy myself.

Someone is standing behind me.

Cho. He's holding a brown paper shopping bag full of apples. He offers me one. It seems Lisbon brought them from Washington State for the new team.

I look around and notice everyone in the department is munching an apple. Cho give me the tiniest hint of an encouraging smile. I take one.

Cho takes one. He bites into the apple in front of me. I guess I should try to relate to my co-workers by eating an apple too.

I take a big bite.

Cho grabs it out of my hand, puts it in a baggie and leaves.

I'm confused.

Where are they? Are they back in the Airstream? Are they in the building?

I'm upset. I go back to my office and rake my zen garden. That usually helps.

Someone is outside my door. I look up. Abbott is there. Cho is there. Heffernan is there. Kravitz is there. Mason is there. They're just staring.

Teresa Lisbon is there too.

She comes into my office and slams a small plaster dental cast on my desk. "Your teeth," she says. She slaps a photo on my desk. "Patrick's ass," she says.

I can't breathe.

Teresa pulls open my desk drawer to reveal my iPad mini with the live feed to the detention suite.

Wylie is in the suite holding a make-up bag. He opens it and says into the camera, "Your drugs."

Teresa slams a little vial down on my desk. "Patrick's blood."

They know everything.


	8. Chapter 8

I look at the dental cast and the photo of the tooth marks on Patrick's ass and the vial of Patrick's blood that Lisbon has plopped on my desk.

I draw my gun. I'm fast as lightning.

Everybody freezes. Abbott, Cho, Lisbon, the rest of the agents.

Should I shoot one of them? Would that make sense?

And if so, who?

Abbott's yelling at me in that way only he can.

"Put. The. Gun. Down. Now."

Cho's yelling.

"Do it now."

I don't put it down. I need time to think.

For twenty seconds, we all just stand there looking at each other.

Lisbon says, "Screw it," and hurls her teensy body at me.

I wind up on the floor. She winds up with my gun.

She's very professional about the way she handcuffs me and pulls me to my feet.

FBI professional. I'm impressed.

Abbott and Cho move in to take me.

Lisbon shakes her head and pushes me to walk.

Everyone we pass watches as our little procession, Lisbon, me, Cho, Abbott and the other agents, marches along the window wall toward the elevator.

Why do things like this always happen to me?

I really am unlucky in love.

We arrive at the elevator bank.

Abbott and Cho and the other agents stop but Lisbon keeps on walking past the elevators. Pushing me forward.

Abbott and Cho look puzzled and follow Lisbon.

We arrive at the ladies room.

Lisbon bumps the door open with her hip and shoves me in.

Abbott comes in. He looks confused.

Cho comes in. He doesn't look confused.

I'm confused. I don't need to pee.

Lisbon jams me into a stall.

Does she need to pee?

If so, Abbott or Cho could hold me while she uses the facilities.

Maybe in the CBI, agents use the facilities while holding prisoners but it's not FBI protocol. She has a lot to learn.

Lisbon kicks me in the back of the legs. I go down on my knees.

I'm kneeling on the tile. Disgusting. Bathroom floors are very unsanitary and I-

GLUB

Lisbon is holding my head in the toilet while she flushes it over and over.

GLUB

I remember this from grade school. It's called giving someone a swirly.

GLUB

I'm sure Patrick would never sanction such behavior.

Wait till I tell him.

Lisbon stands me up and hands me off to Cho who starts to hustle me out of the ladies room.

Abbott is yelling at Lisbon about proper comportment for FBI agents.

Cho stops and gives him a look that I've come to know as the Cho look. Abbott shuts his mouth and keeps it shut.

I glance in the mirror on our way out.

My hair looks awful.

tmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmtmt

Patrick refuses to press charges.

Abbott says he doesn't want to dwell on what happened to him. And he thinks I need help.

I know that's Patrick's way of letting me know that he cares. That he's sorry it had to end this way.

Although he was unconscious, I know that a part of him will always remember what we had.

I like my new digs here at the center.

Perhaps some handsome agent has his eye on me right now.


End file.
